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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28335531">so hurry down the chimney tonight</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/levlinwinlaer/pseuds/levlinwinlaer'>levlinwinlaer</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Portrait de la jeune fille en feu | Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/F, appallingly late xmas fic, format inspired by the one &amp; only ridiculousmavis</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 02:34:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,254</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28335531</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/levlinwinlaer/pseuds/levlinwinlaer</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Do you,” said the stranger, dusted lightly with snow, face hopefully upturned into the warmth of Heloïse’s firelit cabin, “have any cookies?”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Héloïse/Marianne (Portrait of a Lady on Fire)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>93</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>so hurry down the chimney tonight</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>happy boxing day! it's xmas somewhere in the world right</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was nearing midnight on the holiday of December 24th and celebrated young author Héloïse Seville Pulitzer-winning highly acclaimed and very reclusive was cleaning her mantelpiece. There were definitely other things she could be doing but as they all entailed Thinking About Things she was avoiding them with great vigour.</p><p>Here were the things she had to do, as written on the to-do list on her desk, helpfully labelled ‘To-Do List’.</p><p>‘Send in manuscript.</p><p>Send in watch.</p><p>…</p><p>…</p><p>…</p><p>Write to Mother.’</p><p>There were a number of reasons that these three items had yet to be fulfilled. But really those reasons all stemmed from one very large reason which was a lot to get into especially considering she had only now been introduced a few lines ago. Suffice it to say H. Seville was known for her efficiency in all things except those that involved communicating her own difficult emotions (though she seemed to write about other people’s difficult emotions quite often and with relative ease).</p><p>Héloïse, speaking of, was tossing the old sock she had been using as a cleaning rag aside and pacing over to her desk. Where she ignored the to-do list, and also the broken disassembled watch sitting in carefully arranged pieces by her notebook. She ignored all of it. She was very good at ignoring things, was Héloïse.</p><p>One thing that she did not ignore was the knock at the door. At almost midnight on December 24th in a small isolated cabin miles from Old Crow there were very few people who tended to knock on doors. Except for wanted criminals. And maybe some very insistent paparazzi.</p><p>With this in mind Héloïse put a hunting knife in her boot, made sure the poker was easily accessible, and went to look through the peephole.</p><p>It was a woman. A woman in a truly hideous red suit reminiscent of those American mall Santas, and an even more hideous red hat. Other than the clothing, which was offensive in many ways, she was quite nice-looking. Not at all like a lost hiker. Or a murderer. Though what did murderers look like, really?</p><p>Héloïse put her mouth to the door, mindful of any knives or axes that might come poking through. “Who is it?”</p><p>“You don’t have to let me in,” said the shivering voice. Which was promising. Most murderers didn’t say things like that. Right? “This is a little awkward but I was trying to go down your chimney and one of my friends slipped on the roof, it’s at an odd angle and with the snow piling up he couldn’t see a thing, and I’m wondering if you have any supplies? They wouldn’t be medical supplies exactly but-”</p><p>“You were trying to go down my chimney,” Héloïse repeated, feeling for the knife in her boot. “Why were you trying to go down my chimney?”</p><p>“Oh! Here, I can show you my license if you want.” Through the peephole Héloïse watched her extract a small glowing (?) card from inside the flimsy suit. “It’s a really bad photo, I know. Please don’t judge. They wouldn’t let me retake it. Here, I’ll just push it through the slot.”</p><p>There was the ‘tink’ of something falling into the tiny mailslot. Against her better judgement Héloïse extracted the card and inspected it. It was warm. And glowing, very slightly, though there didn’t seem to be any source powering it. Unless there were some exceptionally thin batteries-? </p><p>Anyway. The top read, in a red curlicue font, ‘Saints’ Licensing Bureau For International Travel,’ and below it, a little footnote: ‘Doubles as passport and border control pass.’ Then a photo of the stranger with the same hat on and a look on her face like she was about to sneeze. Where the name would go on a real license there was instead written ‘Saint:’, and next to it, ’Marianne (orig. Nicholas).’ The birthdate confirmed her as being the same age as Héloïse. Except she had been born on December 24th.</p><p>Héloïse was starting to sense a theme here. She tried to bend the card but it seemed to be made of some very strong material. If this was a prank it was a very odd one indeed.</p><p>Maybe it was that sentiment that made her open the door.</p><p>She was tall. Hunched over a little to protect from the cold. Dark hair past her shoulders with the hat pulled nearly over her eyes. The suit was even worse up close, a velvet thing that was much too big for her.</p><p>“Do you,” said the stranger, dusted lightly with snow, face hopefully upturned into the warmth of Heloïse’s firelit cabin, “have any cookies?”</p><p>At Héloïse’s bewildered stare she elaborated, though not very helpfully, “For the reindeer. They’re a bit- it’s a lot of work, you know. To get around this quickly. One night! I mean, of course the elves have a lot more to complain about in terms of workplace conditions- they’re- well it’s really appalling, it is. I’ve had a word with the NPRBEWC but I can’t do much about it til next year.”</p><p>“Is this some kind of joke,” Héloïse said flatly, after opening and closing her mouth a few times. “Because I’m not letting you in and I’m not giving you any money.”</p><p>The Santa looked slightly hurt. “I don’t want your <em> money</em>,” she said. “And I don’t need to be let in. I just need a few cookies. Chocolate chip, if you have them.”</p><p>“Why would I have any- Why are you outside my house? And how did you get all the way out here wearing that?”</p><p>“<em>What</em>? No cookies? My God, the market’s changed.” She shook her head in a manner that was supposed to be disapproving but was mostly just shivery.</p><p>Héloïse reviewed the facts.</p><p> </p><p>A List of Facts Known to Héloïse at This Stage:</p><p>1. She was alone in the woods with a total stranger who seemed to believe very sincerely that she- the stranger, not Héloïse- was Santa Claus.</p><p>2. The stranger seemed mostly harmless (though appearances could be very deceiving).</p><p>3. Rules of backwoods hospitality dictated that Héloïse at least bring her a cup of tea.</p><p>4. Rules of common sense dictated that she beat her off with a stick and block all the windows. <em> But </em>she looked so cold and all she was wearing in the way of winter gear was that ridiculous red hat with the little white pom-pom on the end. Besides, Héloïse had a poker sitting by the fireside, ready to jab away any lunatics. And also a hunting knife poking into her ankle.</p><p> </p><p>“I have chocolate digestives,” Héloïse said. Not quite opening the door. But angling it slightly.</p><p>“Oh, no, that's quite alright,” the Santa said breezily, around the clacking of her teeth. “He's rather picky, he won't have anything other than choc-chip. You said no chocolate chips? Damn shame. Oops, sorry. I meant that’s a shame.” Confidentially she whispered to Héloïse, “I’m not supposed to swear. Part of working with kids and all. Gosh, I might have to write myself up for the NPRBAL. Speaking of- let me grab that card back from you. Very important for borders. Especially the Russians. You know, you don’t look all that kid-ish, now that I think about it. Do you have kids?”</p><p>Certifiably insane, then. Great.</p><p>“Sadly I do not,” Héloïse said. “And I still haven’t heard an <em> actual </em> explanation as to why you are outside my door.”</p><p>The Santa ignored the latter bit in favour of bemusedly inspecting Héloïse. “That’s weird. I should have- well, no. You left a stocking out.”</p><p>“I- a <em> what</em>?”</p><p>“A stocking.” She mimed a stocking shape with her white-gloved hands. “You know. Sock-shaped. I have something for you, by the way. Though really I’m supposed to put it in the stocking. Unfortunately your chimney is not very accessible.”</p><p>“What,” Héloïse said.</p><p>“If you have the time you should work on it,” she said earnestly. “The chimney. It’s much more convenient to have it be above the roof. Prancer nearly lost a hoof coming down. Actually, would you mind it if I just dropped this off? Hold on a minute.”</p><p>She turned on her heel and marched back down the drive to-</p><p>To-</p><p>Héloïse blinked. Then blinked again. Then wiped the snow from her eyes.</p><p>No. Still there.</p><p>An honest-to-God sleigh. And reindeer. A lot of them. Definitely moving, maybe animatronic but for the steaming puffs of breath and the impatient way that they pawed at the snow. And a sleigh. With an enormous sack on the back now covered in a thin layer of snow and the stranger bending over it. A red sleigh. An actual fucking sleigh.</p><p>The- the Santa?- hopped off the edge of the sleigh and started trotting up Héloïse’s driveway back to where she stood gobsmacked and mute in the door frame. This was a <em> lot </em> of work to go to for a bizarre joke. A bizarre joke on Héloïse who was in the middle of nowhere in a cabin that approximately two people knew she was renting. Maybe a town tradition? But- but- reindeer? <em> Reindeer</em>? A sleigh? The horrible red hat?</p><p>“Got it,” the Santa said cheerfully. She was holding a small package, wrapped in festive red-and-green paper with cartoon reindeer cavorting about, and a neat bow on top. “It’s- it really is supposed to go in your stocking. Um. I know it’s a lot to ask but would you mind if I just ducked in and put it- it’s not traditional, I know. And really you’re not supposed to open it till tomorrow morning. Would it be okay if-?”</p><p>“Egh,” Héloïse said intelligently, still gaping at the sleigh.</p><p>“Okay, great.” </p><p>She went barging in past Héloïse in a rush of gingerbread-smell and cold air. Unsuccessfully protesting, Héloïse followed her into the living room and right to the mantelpiece, where-</p><p>The Santa turned around with two fingers clasping a dust-crusted old sock.</p><p>“Oh, God,” Héloïse said, startled into mortification, and snatched it from her. “That’s- not a stocking. I was just using it to clean.”</p><p>"They sell rags for these sorts of things," the Santa said pleasantly. "But you really are supposed to have a proper stocking. Hm. Well. I’ll tell you what- this is definitely against the rules but really I’m not supposed to be doing any of this anyway." Her eyes squeezed shut. "Close your eyes, please."</p><p>Héloïse had the instant horrifying thought that she was about to die at the hands of someone in a Santa suit. Best to go along with it, maybe? “Okay."</p><p>“They’re still open."</p><p>"No they're not."</p><p>"Yes they are. I know they are because it’s not working. Just close your eyes. Sorry, I know it’s a little weird.”</p><p>Héloïse stared at the Santa for a moment. At the girl in a bright red suit with a gift-wrapped package in one hand standing with her eyes closed in Héloïse’s cabin at midnight on December 24th who had arrived and presumably was going to leave on a sleigh pulled by reindeer. <em> Weird </em> didn’t begin to cover it.</p><p>“Okay,” Héloïse said reluctantly, and closed her eyes.</p><p>There was a little ‘pop’. “Okay, open them again.”</p><p>The Santa was holding a simple red stocking, into which she deposited the package. The whole bundle was hooked onto the mantelpiece, almost certainly a fire risk. “<em>Don’t </em>open it till tomorrow,” warned the Santa, looking satisfied with her work. “Okay. Bye. Happy Christmas.”</p><p>She marched out the door with Héloïse hot on her heels.</p><p>“Excuse me!”</p><p>With an expectant look she turned back around.</p><p>“Um,” was what Héloïse managed to produce. “Um, what? Are you-? Santa?”</p><p>“As the day is bright in Lancashire,” said- Santa Marianne?- with a grin. “Which is to say, kind of, but really only one day out of the year.”</p><p>She tossed up a salute and disappeared off down the drive. Leaving Héloïse to stare after her as she boarded the sleigh and cried some unintelligible command. The reindeer lurched into a walk, straining underneath the load. Slowly they sped up, the pace increasing till they were each of them running, hindquarters bunching and back hooves striking the snowy ground with enough force to melt it. In seconds they were out of sight, as was the sleigh with the blurry little silhouette perched atop it.</p><p> </p><p>The next morning, after Héloïse had declared herself mentally unstable and gone to bed, the stocking was still there. With careful shaking hands she took it off the mantelpiece. Real. Soft cotton. With a weight inside.</p><p>There was a tiny card attached to the package, reading, “Happy Xmas! Santa” in loopy handwriting. Héloïse examined it for a long minute. Then she unwrapped the gift.</p><p>A watch-repairing kit.</p><p>It was a watch-repairing kit.</p><p> </p><p>Héloïse bought the cabin.</p><p> </p><p>A week later, and looking furtively round the whole time, she went into town and asked to use one of the massive old computers.</p><p>The following record is corroborated by the Old Crow Computer Records, available upon demand provided an official SLB ID is shown at the counter.</p><p> </p><p>&gt;open Google Chrome</p><p>&gt;search 'bing.com'</p><p>&gt;search 'Santa'</p><p>&gt;search 'Saints Licensing Bureau'</p><p>&gt;search 'woman santa'</p><p>&gt;search 'woman santa not porn'</p><p>&gt;search 'santa impersonator old crow yukon’'</p><p>&gt;search 'santa real'</p><p>&gt;search 'Santa how to contact if real'</p><p>&gt;search 'santa north pole postage fare'</p><p>&gt;open New Tab</p><p>&gt;search 'hotmail.com'</p><p>&gt;open New Message to helene.seville@gmail.com: 'I will be staying here for the foreseeable future. H.'</p><p>&gt;message sent</p><p> </p><p>&gt;logged out</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Héloïse sent the first letter the next day.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Saint "Santa" Marianne (orig. Nicholas),</p><p>This is likely not the typical letter you might receive, unless you often find yourself knocking on doors in search of biscuits. My name is Héloïse Seville and you landed on my driveway on December 24th at approximately 11:26pm. I have a few questions if you would perhaps be amenable to answering them. Please answer at your earliest convenience, if this does indeed reach you. I am putting it through my fireplace where it will indubitably burn to ashes. Yet I have noticed that the laws of physics do not seem to apply to you so perhaps this will follow that theme.</p><p>I hope your reindeer friend has recovered.</p><p>H. Seville</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>The reply came in the form of a red-and-green envelope sitting very innocuously in front of Héloïse's fireplace the next morning. There was no way on earth it could have gotten there through any mortal means. Héloïse resigned herself to believing the impossible and opened the letter.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>To my new acquaintance Héloïse Seville,</p><p>It is a joy and a pleasure to hear from you. Or is it see from you? Read from you? In any case your letter was very gladly received.</p><p>Fire away with any questions you like, though do note that I have signed a NPSCDNDA and certain things may be blacked out at the discretion of the NPBPMAC should we continue to write through that original address. And Marianne is just fine.</p><p>Much holiday cheer,</p><p>Marianne</p><p>P.S. I’ll send Prancer your well-wishes. He’s a bit of an attention hog so it should cheer him up immensely to know someone’s thinking of him.</p><p><br/>
--</p><p>Saint Marianne,</p><p>Please elaborate on these acronyms. I assume the NP stands for North Pole but correct me if I am wrong. I have affixed a list of questions below. In particular I suggest answering 1, 2, 4, 7, 12, 28, 54, and 62.</p><p>H. Seville</p><p><br/>
--</p><p>To my very thoughtful acquaintance Héloïse Seville,</p><p>Thank you for the wonderful parcel. Prancer found them quite delicious and I must confess I did too. Though I prefer oatmeal raisin, which I find is an unpopular opinion among the reindeer. Do you have a favourite cookie?</p><p>In my previous letter I believe I referred to the NPBPMAC: the North Pole Bureau of Postal Management and Appropriate Communication.</p><p>I have done my best to answer all your questions, and I hope you will excuse the crumbs on the manuscript. You have extraordinary handwriting.</p><p>With great appreciation,</p><p>Marianne</p><p><br/>
--</p><p>Saint Marianne,</p><p>I do not like biscuits much though I did always like gingerbread.</p><p>How does this NPBPMAC function? Is our correspondence being monitored? By whom? If the reindeer, which one?</p><p><strike> Your ha </strike> Thank you. I do a lot of writing by hand.</p><p>H. Seville </p><p><br/>
--</p><p>To my impressively curious acquaintance Héloïse Seville,</p><p>Wonderful news! Gingerbread is the most structurally sound of all cookies and a worthy favourite.</p><p>The NPBPMAC is one of my old foes and really ought to be overturned. I won’t get into it too much but I’ll see if I can sneak a pamphlet to you. Or maybe the photocopier still works? The misers who draw up the budget won’t spend an extra cent on NPOMMS materials but I’ll do my best. (That’s the North Pole Offices for Minor and Major Saints, by the way.)</p><p>The literacy rate among reindeer remains somewhere in the realm of 0.4%, though I plan to let you know if that changes. And here’s a rather shocking thing about the NPBPMAC- about 86% of North Pole staffers are elves, but almost all the employees at the NPBPMAC are minor saints. Boy, are they <strike> pisshats </strike> grumpy. Usually minor saints get to oversee bureaus. Not these ones, though. </p><p>All letters to ‘Santa,’ ‘Santa Claus,’ ‘Saint Nick,’ and all variations thereof go through the NPBPMAC before coming to me, as do returns. I got in a spot of trouble for your first letter (it being addressed to me personally and all), but I’ve managed to circumvent it. You might notice that my first letter had a different return address, which you very thoughtfully addressed all following letters to. That’s my personal mailbox. Nothing through there goes through the NPBPMAC.</p><p>A lot of writing by hand? Are you an author, then?</p><p>Enjoy the reading,</p><p>Marianne</p><p><br/>
--</p><p>Saint Marianne,</p><p>I find after perusing the pamphlet you so kindly sent me I am left with little more than a headache and a newfound appreciation for your ability to remember acronyms. It was very considerate of you to annotate it.</p><p>Do you qualify as a major saint? I assume you do as you have yet to admit any positive feelings toward any bureau, or confess to having any particular bureaucratic responsibilities.</p><p>In the past I have been described as an author, though I have really only written one thing.</p><p>H. Seville</p><p><br/>
--</p><p>To my possibly-author acquaintance Héloïse Seville,</p><p>You get the hang of the acronyms after twenty-something years. Don’t worry, you have time yet. And yes- you happen to be writing to the only major saint currently based in the North Pole. All the others are in Brazil or the Bahamas or what-have-you. But there’s no rest for the wicked, and thus I slog along out here. </p><p>Sadly the bureaus function under the IBIS (Independent But Interconnected System), and while I technically oversee them, I don’t have much executive power to change things.</p><p>One thing is enough to be considered an author. Are you any good at it, do you think?</p><p>Shivers and chills,</p><p>Marianne</p><p><br/>
--</p><p>Saint Marianne,</p><p>How does one become a saint, major or minor?</p><p>I used to be very good at writing tragedies but right now I am not very good at writing anything.</p><p>Stay warm.</p><p>H. Seville</p><p><br/>
--</p><p>To my saintly acquaintance Héloïse Seville,</p><p>Are you interested in becoming a saint? Luckily it doesn’t involve nearly as much martyrdom as it used to. I’ve highlighted the relevant parts in the attached tome. It’s the 1685 edition so it’s a bit outdated, but I’ve made some corrections in the margins.</p><p>Perhaps you would benefit from a change in subject matter. Have you tried being funny?</p><p>Chuckling and guffawing,</p><p>Marianne</p><p><br/>
--</p><p>St. Marianne,</p><p>I do not care much for becoming a saint especially as it seems to involve quite a bit of self-immolation. Really I am interested in you.</p><p>Did you hear Canada has reached summer? The meteorologists are predicting record highs of 11 degrees Celsius.</p><p>(That was a joke.)</p><p>Héloïse Seville</p><p><br/>
--</p><p>To my most hilarious acquaintance Héloïse Seville,</p><p>I think my laugh frightened the reindeer. Try your hand at something lighthearted and if you’d like to send anything my way I’d be delighted to read it.</p><p><strike>I am You are</strike> I’m interested in you, too.</p><p>With eternal curiosity,</p><p>Marianne</p><p><br/>
--</p><p>St. Marianne,</p><p>This is very likely an odd question to ask but do you remember <strike> m </strike> all the people you visit? The ones whose faces you see, that is.</p><p>Héloïse Seville</p><p><br/>
--</p><p>To the lovely, blonde, tall, and slightly scary Héloïse Seville,</p><p>You will recall that I do not see many faces, and the ones I do see are generally by accident. Actually, about five years ago, I was making a quick descent in Chile, and an astronomer caught me with a telescope halfway out a window. You can imagine the assumptions she would have made. It was gift-wrapped, luckily, and I managed to smooth things over all right and get to everything before dawn. Joyous Night time is really quite amazing.</p><p>Which is a long and convoluted way of saying yes, I do remember you. Though if you would like to remind me of your face that would be most welcomed.</p><p>With some embarrassment,</p><p>Marianne</p><p><br/>
--</p><p>St. Marianne,</p><p>The woman on the left is my sister. The only picture I ever posed for without her was my headshot. Which you wouldn’t want to see, I don’t think.</p><p>Héloïse</p><p><br/>
--</p><p>To the inimitable Héloïse and her wonderful sister,</p><p>There you are wrong. I’m sure you’ve heard it about a thousand times but you look so alike. Is she older than you?</p><p>With great admiration,</p><p>Marianne</p><p><br/>
--</p><p>St. Marianne,</p><p>Please excuse my delay in writing. Sylvie was two years older than me and much better at talking to people.</p><p>Héloïse</p><p><br/>
--</p><p>Héloïse,</p><p>I am very sorry for your loss. If it’s any consolation you have been exceptionally good at talking to me. You can tell me about her, if you’d like. If not I can show you my baby photos.</p><p>Very best,</p><p>Marianne</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Héloïse looked at the letter for a long while. It was written, as always, on nice paper, with a curling border of red and green. Marianne had taken to doodling little cartoons in the margins, and this one was a little photo album surrounded by a (possibly literal) halo of little lines, and a drawing of a baby in a Santa hat. Héloïse put her fingers to the paper and felt it warm to her touch.</p><p>Upon opening the drawer in her desk Héloïse found, easily, the newspaper clipping. Two years old now. Thin patches where the ink had run and the paper had gone transparent. Worn around the smooth-cut edges. Beneath it, secured by a paper-clip, another clipping, this one torn without much care from the paper. ‘<em>Off A True Story </em>Wins Pulitzer,’ it declared, and stapled to it, ‘Pulitzer Goes to Seville Debut.’</p><p>She pried the paper-clip off and took only the top clipping. This she tucked into the largest envelope she had. The second thing she had to hunt for- in the box below her bed, the pictures. The third, a fresh never-touched paperback from one of the tottering stacks of boxes. And the last, a scrap of paper. On which she wrote, ‘Please send baby photos. Héloïse.’</p><p>Héloïse pressed her thumb to her tongue, sealed the envelope with one swipe, and scribbled down the familiar address. And then she tossed it in the fire.</p><p>It was gone in minutes. Dissolving into ash, a fine grey dust settling beneath the burning logs. And somewhere in the North Pole, it appeared.</p><p> </p><p>An hour later there was a familiar ‘pop,’ and a slightly less familiar ‘thunk’. With a Pavlovian thrill Héloïse got to her feet and picked up the carefully bound book, labelled, in neat spidery handwriting, ‘Little Marianne.’</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Marianne,</p><p>Do you ever wonder what your ears look like?</p><p>Very respectfully,</p><p>Héloïse</p><p><br/>
--</p><p>To my very funny friend Héloïse,</p><p>I was born with the hat on, actually. And I <em> can </em>take it off. But it’s really not in line with policy.</p><p>Hardy har har,</p><p>Marianne</p><p><br/>
--</p><p>Marianne,</p><p>How??</p><p>Héloïse</p><p><br/>
--</p><p>To my intrepid friend Héloïse,</p><p>You are writing to me just as my break is about to end and it is very welcomed but I cannot possibly explain it all now. I do have a question for you.</p><p>With a tip of the hat,</p><p>Marianne</p><p><br/>
--</p><p>Marianne,</p><p>Please elaborate as soon as possible.</p><p>Héloïse</p><p><br/>
--</p><p>To the inestimably patient Héloïse,</p><p>What are you doing next month?</p><p>Waiting and waiting,</p><p>Marianne</p><p><br/>
--</p><p>Marianne,</p><p>The first snow is long gone and the fun of it has quite worn off so I think I will be stocking up on biscuits. Reflecting on the year now I think I have probably written more in these letters to you than I have in my manuscript. But such is the way of things. Maybe I <em> will </em> try a comedy.</p><p>Please let Prancer &amp; co. know that out of all the roofs in the world there are few more conducive to spraining an ankle than mine. It would be most unfortunate if such a horrible thing were to happen two years in a row.</p><p>Héloïse</p><p><br/>
--</p><p>To the prescient Héloïse,</p><p>I will warn them all to be very careful descending into Old Crow. The Canadian wilderness is a dangerous place for reindeer. It is a hectic time so I am dashing this out crouched in a corner (hiding from the NPBPW who are demanding I attend a seminar on ribbon-tying techniques). Will explain shortly. Cannot wait.</p><p>With eager anticipation,</p><p>Marianne</p>
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